


These Futile Prayers

by calicokat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, mentions of Dean Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Castiel, who aren't in Heaven..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Futile Prayers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ireallyhatecornnuts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ireallyhatecornnuts).



"Castiel, who aren't in Heaven, I know I'm coming in clear because I'm already starting to sympathize with deep friend gator. Top of the food chain one minute..." The scent on the air's like pork left on too long on an open grill, going char black. Benny listens to his fat sizzle under his skin and his blood boil. There's a coppery tinge to the steaming air. "If'n you've got time in your day for the damned, you'd be a sight. I'm miles from the next hos—"

He hears wings – feathers rustling as Castiel relaxes the flared appendages that haunt his back. Benny can hear them whenever they're drawn up sharp against Castiel's back or when they suddenly snap wide. He can see them. Not all the time, only glimpses when they're in motion. Castiel carries them like they'd get in the way of the mortals if they weren't flexing and tucking. Maybe they would. Maybe they put off an eerie feeling, like walking through a ghost.

Castiel's big blue eyes brim with sincere condolences, his brow tucked together. His arms are loaded with plastic bags fat with blood and marked up with stickers. 

"I apologize for taking so long. I thought if I spread my acquisitions over six hospitals my theft would not inconvenience their patients." He stops. Thinks. Starts again, becoming grave. "The last time we spoke on alligators you complained about the introduction of pythons into the environment. You requested I participate in the winter python hunt and obliterate the wild American population to prevent—"

"Did you?"

In that time Benny's tugged a bag out of the pile and bit off the piping. He may be a dead man, a good seventy-two degrees, but the refrigerated blood wallows icy in his stomach. Castiel's heartbeat throbs in his ears and the smell off him is enough to drive a man to murder.

Castiel walks to the nearby picnic table to carefully unburden himself, face still stitched together.

"After contemplation, yes. The humans' feeble attempt at penance for destroying the diversity once inherent to my father's creation moved me. The pythons did not belong."

Benny grins, bloody fangs at full extension.

"Hallelujah. Like I said. Gators: Top of the food chain."

Castiel turns to face him, concern for Benny re-taking his expression. His eyebrows part to rise, gaze seeking.

"I don't comprehend why you waste words when prayer so pains you. And if you would honor my own request and cease denigrating yourself—"

Behind his glasses and beneath the brim of his hat, Benny fixes a scowl on the angel.

"You know how I—"

Castiel takes one step forward, dry detritus cracking under his hard soled shoe.

"I see nothing to be ashamed of in asking a friend for help. You suffer from a difficult condition. You—"

Benny scoffs, cocking his head to the side.

"Carried you through your own 'difficult condition.' Yeah. I did that."

Castiel's eyes falls away like he's gazing into the distance, but it's more likely distances beyond sight. Benny presses the blood packet flat between his fingers, squeezing out the last of that inimitable elixir his inhuman body desperately craves. Castiel has reached a resolution and lets those baby blues fall back on Benny. This time the vampire is in a better position to appreciate them. The angel's beating heart still pounds in his ears, but the cold blood has started taking the edge off.

"Conversation between us is of decreasing utility," Castiel says.

Benny laughs, tossing the drained blood bag onto the picnic table. He takes an easy seat on the bench, his back to the blood, elbows hitched on the table. He casts that gold rush a look over his shoulder; hears feathers. Castiel has acquired a bag of ice and the cooler from the truck. The angel works with practiced hands, layering pouches and frozen water with military efficiency.

"We ain't down to hours of soulful staring, yet," Benny says, watching Castiel breeze through the motions with a faint trace of concentration.

The angel shuts the cooler, snapping the plastic clasps tight.

"—Dean is… fine. His relationship with Sam is much repaired."

Benny extends an arm toward Heaven's wayward son. Castiel meets his eyes through the tint on his shades. The angel paces from his place at the end of the table and around the corner of the bench. He looks down at Benny's relaxed thighs. He shows no hesitance, no sign of second thoughts, as he climbs onto him, weight sinking onto the vampire's legs. Castiel needs no provocation, mouth pressed hot to Benny's, heedless of the blood on his lips or his razor teeth. Benny takes his time actually getting that arm around him. If he holds Castiel too tight too sudden there's an awful temptation to bite that ripe pair of lips sheer off.

The power of Castiel's presence creates the illusion he should be heavier – as heavy physically as he comes off spiritually. He's not. What he is is an inferno. Any living body is. Andrea's body was. The living wear a heat so succulent it melts into Benny's skin like caramel. Castiel, though, there's more to it. Dangerously literal fire burns in his touch as one hand slides over cold skin and close-cropped hair to cup Benny's skull. One misplaced thought, and Benny? He'd be ash. Maybe that burn is psychosomatic, but then right then Castiel's primaries flare.

The vampire goes still. It takes all Benny's concentration and the angel's thumb stroking promises against his scalp for his upper teeth to withdraw into his gums. Twice they stubbornly slice forward before disappearing, body railing against sopping up cold blood when there's a feast at its fingertips. He reminds it it's a guarantee there'll be nothing left, not a hair, if it guzzles down angel blood.

That frees them up to kiss like animals. Benny was never surprised Castiel's so fervent: attention starved. He remembers when he first broke free of his own nest, both the exhilarating terror and uncertainty of liberation and the cold, disorienting solitude even a crowd. He slaughtered his brothers and sisters, but that emptiness still hangs over him. He misses them the same as when he knew, somewhere, they were waiting to rend him apart.

He's caught on to the fact that Castiel's the same. He's been building up the still-skeletal story from snatches of evidence.

Benny shoves the angel's overcoat off, aided by Castiel's withdrawn and eagerly abetting arms. The vampire reckons those wings are held high. For better or worse he's not keen on close contact, and the angel hasn't seemed so keen either. Benny's stuck in his jacket, sitting on the tail and the back pinned against the picnic table. Not his first concern when he's sliding that tie off of Castiel's neck and the angel's unbuttoned that crisp white dress shirt, giving him skin. 

Castiel treats Benny's clothes as if they're just as good as skin, dragging his grasp down the lapels of his coat, clinging to a handful of shirt, thumb and index finger running the waist of his pants. It's about right for Benny, too. Safer. God's flame stays trapped under his fingertips, Castiel's gasps and growling groans of pleasure at his command, Castiel riding up on him when Benny presses a palm to his side, grinding business slacks against practical, working man's trousers, their cocks full against their flies.

The cold rush of lust fanned in Benny's belly isn't as half as heady as bloodlust, but the blood-engorged organ digging against his body, the smell of sex on living flesh and the pulse of mineral rich liquor pumping through Castiel's excited heart ramp the stakes up. 

—tackling Castiel to the dirt, tearing those slacks down, a minute with saliva, then engulfing his cock in the furnace and letting sex ache through his hips while they thrust for purchase is only half the thrill. Castiel spasming underneath him, heart convulsing in death-fast palpitations, whining, strangling out a choked yell, grasping at him like a man in surrender, a man taking what's coming to him, fight tangled up with final abandon – that's the good stuff. That's the ticket straight to Hell.

It'd be different – so much more – if it was Andrea.

This is Castiel. _Damn_ he's beautiful, but this is surviving.

"Sweetheart, I think you get hornier by the week," Benny murmurs, entranced with lapping the sweat off Castiel's human skin, blood vessels beating in time with a heart off the rails just beneath the flesh. 

Castiel heaves for air underneath him, staring aimlessly into the forest canopy above.

"I am… approaching a full understanding of your nuanced physical desires."

"And shit for pillow talk."

Castiel refocuses on the moment.

"We have no pillow. That's a colloquialism."

Benny doesn't bother to explain. The angel will make it by on immersion humanity. Benny's more interested in pressing his thumb to Castiel's neck where volcanic, potentially-fatal liquid throbs in a torrent while he sucks the sweat and faintest taste of iron off the angel's chest.

Castiel will leave. It's not the time or place for conversation. At a bar or somewhere scenic when Benny's tanked up, doesn't need to burn off a week of a dwindling blood supply and raw nerves, then maybe they'll reminisce or even start up something philosophical. Two old dogs, strays, wandering the liminal spaces between God's green earth and a thousand intersecting horrors.

There's enough green earth left for Benny to stay off the grid except when a craving for blood or a need to do a few odd jobs for gas or the tedium of solitude lures him to some East Buddhafuck town for days or a week.

It's not easy to be a gentleman to an angel or anybody else under these circumstances.

They've broken into more than one cabin so generously provided by the National Park Service. Benny remembers the first time he handed Castiel cash for lube, sent him off to a pharmacy to pick through varieties of K-Y: _I ruled out 'Intense Arousal Gel for Her'._

Lube in hand and no clothes between then, Benny's given that lily-white ass a few take-his-time poundings, complete with foreplay: watched Castiel's eyes roll in their sockets, heard the knuckles of his wing smack a knotted wooden wall, had Heaven-hot hands greedily slide over and clasp to his skin, leaving some rapidly fading five-fingered bruises by the time Castiel's bucked through cumming like some nitro-fueled V8.

"There's an Obeah man asking me to pull a duppy in Guyana and a desperate need for rain before crops fail in China," Castiel says.

Benny doubles over in laughter against Castiel's chest, forehead pressed to muscle. The confused angel lets it go on until curiosity gets the better of him.

"I don't understand what's so funny."

"It's a big difference scale, sweetheart. I'm just wondering if you fulfill anybody else's want for a warm body while you wing it around the world."

The question perplexes the angel.

"I am only sharing sexual relations with you."

Suddenly it's not so funny anymore.

Benny gives him a grin and pulls himself together, straightening out the clothes he has to change because Castiel came on his shirt, still hot and sticky.

"Is that a problem?" Castiel pursues, oblivious to sprawling debauched in dirt and fallen leaves.

"No problem. Not a problem at all," Benny says. It's true. He even expected it. There's just a difference between knowing and having the angel put it into words, but it's a difference he doesn't think Castiel can understand. Dean hasn't exactly trained Castiel up in the tradition of Christian marriage and Castiel is a lot more interested in eviscerating foes of God than who knocks genitals with what even before the idea of 'free will' leaks in. If there's a division of angels dedicated to upholding sexual mores, Castiel wasn't in it.

"You think I won't understand," Castiel says. Benny cusses. Little bastard is getting sharper.

"I'm not up on my Obeah, but I'm guessing that duppy's on a nasty countdown timer or you'd leave it to the local spirits to fight it out."

Castiel frowns. He disappears, a cacophony of feathers carrying him into the æther.

Benny gets to his feet and puts himself together in more ways than one. He hefts the cooler, carrying it back to the vehicle parked in a parking lot a mile down the way. He doesn't meet any humans between the picnic site and there, but that hunk of plastic would more than cover any questionable liquids staining his clothes.

He doesn't want to think about Castiel. He thinks about Castiel. Hot body, intense eyes, decreasingly childlike understanding of Creation but persisting childlike sense of wonder. Benny tells himself, most of the time, that he ain't looking to get reamed by the bastard because of his post-mortem identification with heterosexuality. The truth is he doesn't want the thing inside the vessel focused in on him like that. Staring into Castiel's face can obliterate a monster like him.

Benny no doubt prefers the bodies of women. Castiel doesn't exactly smell like a man and Castiel doesn't think of himself in those terms, either.

But.

Worse than all that, Castiel – however much Dean wants of Castiel – belongs to Dean. Benny saw it in Purgatory and he knows it for a fact. _Dean says,_ Castiel says. _Dean told me,_ Castiel says. _Dean wanted me to,_ Castiel says.

Benny isn't so keen on tracking down Dean's scent and breaking his jaw if Dean takes the pie and mandates sexual exclusivity, but that's more on account of Dean's psychotic brother than their inability to negotiate an understanding.


End file.
